


Fatherly

by LadySilver



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, NaNoWriMo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only person who knows a boy better than his father is the man who sired him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fatherly

The front door slammed and Rafael stormed away from his ex-wife's house. Frustration burned in his chest at his family's stubborn refusal to cooperate with his investigation. Melissa, he could almost understand. She had always had a streak to her that was naïve-to-the-point-of-gullible—a trait he had found endearing until the rigors of his job had opened his eyes to how the world really worked—but the way she had turned Scott against him during her watch was inexcusable.

Rafael had left his suit coat and tie in the car when he had gone to talk to Scott, in hopes of playing down his official role. Scott had sneered at him and slammed the door in his face. The disrespect coming off his son was palpable.

“I'm your father. You will open that door and speak to me,” he had informed him.

Eventually, the door did open. But the Scott who stood in it with his arms crossed and face set in an expression of pure defiance bore no resemblance to the young man Rafael had expected to see.

Their conversation had steadily deteriorated from there, with Rafael growing more ashamed by the second, until he couldn't stand it any longer.

The sun had set while he'd been inside, bringing on a quick and thorough night. A bite to the breeze tasted of late fall; his feet crunched across the dying lawn as he cut toward his car.

He stopped mid way and turned to stare back at the house, locking his fingers behind his neck. His son's last, shouted words still echoed in his ears: “How dare you demand to be let back into our lives like it wasn't your choice to leave. You left us to take care of things without you, and we did. We don't need you.”

_We don't need you._

Clearly, they did need him. Whatever trouble Scott had let himself get sucked into had obviously been going on for some time—and right under his mother's nose, too. He should have known she was too weak to take the parenting role alone. Under her, the gullibility Scott had inherited had only magnified, making him become easily manipulated. Easily _deceived._

Rafael should have come back sooner. No, he corrected, he should never have let Melissa talk him into leaving Scott with her. It had made sense at the time. A promotion to the LA office meant that he had to move and that he'd have new responsibilities that would conflict with being a single parent. Scott had friends here and he liked his school. The chance to focus on his career for awhile was too good to pass up.

Rafael shook his head.

While Scott had always been a follower—look at how he chased that Stilinski boy around—with poor taste in friends—again with the Stilinski boy—a stronger hand and stricter boundaries could have kept those traits in check. Now he was hanging out with the child of a known arms' dealer and a boy who had been suspected of his father's murder. There was a restraining order, a track record of delinquent behavior, and more gaps in his school attendance record than a pugilist's mouth after a career ending fight.

“Teenagers.”

Turning, Rafael spotted the interlocutor: a white man about his age with brown hair, neat clothes, and a slightly embarrassed smile. He stood on the sidewalk like a man interrupted from an evening stroll. A nearby streetlight cast a washed out illumination over him that was quickly soaked up in the surrounding darkness.

Tipping his shoulder toward the house in silent inclusion of its role, the man continued, “I overheard a little at the end. Good hearing runs in the family.” He splayed his hands and grimaced apologetically at interrupting a private moment, then continued, “They're so determined to ignore the voice of experience, no matter how many problems listening could save them.”

The image sprang to mind of Scott's chin set in immature refusal to answer any of his father's simple questions. The contempt only strengthened Rafael's conviction that Scott was withholding vital information.

“Remember what it was like to believe you knew everything?” the man continued, as if musing to himself. “Oh, the hubris of youth.”

His words so echoed the thoughts running through Rafael's mind that he couldn't help liking this person. Closing the distance between them, he commented, “You sound like someone who has a teenager of his own.” 

The man's expression gave way to a knowing smile. “Not exactly.” Rolling his head in a release of pent up exasperation, he added, “My nephew. He hasn't been a teenager in awhile, though you wouldn't know it to hear him talk. He gets an idea into his head and there's nothing anyone can do to get it out.” He paused, a look of thoughtfulness passing over his face. “Come to think of it, I believe he's a friend of your son's. That is _your son_ who lives in this house, yes?”

“Yes,” Rafael answered, his guard going up rather than down. He took a step back. With what he'd glimpsed of the corruption that had taken hold in the time he'd been gone from Beacon Hills, Rafael couldn't afford to make any assumptions about the people he encountered, no matter how friendly they might seem. But he wasn't going to give away his hand, either. Carefully keeping with the small-talk tone they'd established, he asked, “Do you know Scott, too?”

“I guess you could say that,” the man answered. This time, he made no move to clarify. His gaze ticked up toward the sliver of moon that hung overhead in an enigmatic way that suggested deeper meaning. “Well, I didn't mean to stick my nose into personal business,” he stated with a sigh of conclusion. He made a gesture toward the sidewalk like he was asking permission to carry on.

“That's OK,” Rafael replied with a glance at the house. The curtains in Scott's room were drawn; he thought he saw one move. Wariness pricked at him. There was more going on here than a simple commiseration over teenagers or their attitude problems. Shrugging it off for now, he started back toward his car. “I need to get going, anyway.”

A little ways down the sidewalk, the man turned back, “For what it's worth, I understand that children do most of their growing up when you're not looking. In fact, sometimes they can surprise you with what they they turn into.” With that, he cut the air with a salute and a cheerful “Good night,” then disappeared into the darkness.

Rafael climbed into his car, his son's words still echoing among the background symphony of crickets and traffic. He'd come over to the house tonight in hopes of learning more about what was going on in Beacon Hills. What he'd learned was that he'd returned just in time. If he was going to have any chance at saving his son, he needed to start with some tough love.


End file.
